Knot Her Shot (MVP: Most Valuable Pack Book 2)

Chapter 5

chapter

five

There’sa moment at the beginning of every game.

The lights go out. The music swells. And some disembodied voice says my name.

It shouldn’t be me. I shouldn’t be here.

But that’s the thing about me: even when every odd is stacked against me? I’ll make it.

When I realized I hated living with my biological parents? I somehow charmed my way into people’s houses for a weekend, a summer, a semester.

When I realized I’d never pass my high school classes on my own? I happened to date smart girls who helped me get by.

When my grades still weren’t good enough for college, and I had to find some other way to make money? Well, thank God I was good at hockey.

Better than good.

Because here’s the other thing about me: I’m lucky as fuck.

I know, I know. My parents were assholes. And I was poor. And my grades sucked.

I’m talking about after all that shit. Or maybe because of it. I don’t know, but sometimes, I wonder if the universe finally noticed how much horseshit it had dumped on my head and decided to level things out.

How else do you explain the fact that, in the midst of all my high school couch-surfing, I somehow wound up becoming friends with Cassian? He had been playing hockey all his life, starting back before he lost his parents. And he was the one who recognized that I had the ability to play, too.

It was the first thing that I ever won an award for. The only thing. Because the more I played? The better I got.

Just in time for the major league scouts to pick me up.

Which happened about a year before hockey took off in the US.

See? Lucky.

It was all pure good fortune, including the part where I had Cass’s big, grumbly ass to keep me in line. It’s always been like that with us. I can’t see three feet in front of me, but Cassian has an iMap of The Big Picture projected in his frontal lobe at all times. I run around doing whatever gets me hard, and Smith spends his whole life making lists—as if the minutia of his daily to-dos will actually fucking change something.

But Cassian?

He just knows what’s what.

It’s how we became friends in the first place. We were always the first two freshmen in our high school’s gym each morning. He was there to work on his muscle mass—I was there to get free hash browns from the lunch lady.

It didn’t take long for us to figure out we were basically polar opposites in every respect except for one: we both wanted to be athletes.

Cassian was methodical about it. He worked from a set regimen of exercises and a specific high-protein high-calorie diet. When he wasn’t working out, he had a book in front of his face and a grumpy scowl covering whatever the book didn’t.

Meanwhile, I liked to skate by the easy way—a charming smile, a well-timed joke. Some flattery, some vague reference to plans I’d never actually pursue.

Whatever my training lacked in planning, I tried to make up for with enthusiasm. It helped that the gym was the one place where I actually felt successful; I could always do another lap, another rep, another workout, even when the other guys were about to pass out.

And don’t get me wrong?—

I play hockey. I love a good fight. It’s fun getting my hands dirty and absolutely pummeling the shit out of my opponents.

But Cass is built different. His determination and rage come from a totally different place. And he’s in control of it.

Until he isn’t.

And then? God help you.

The guy I’m matched up against in our season opener reminds me a bit of my silent-but-deadly packmate. I’ve never met this dude before, but he’s glaring at me like I fucked his girlfriend.

Which… is a distinct possibility.

Especially if she’s a puck bunny. Because Lord knows I’ve hit that shit in every city from here to Seattle.

Hell, who am I kidding? Canada, too.

My opponent skates backward as I fly down the side of the rink, closing in on the goal. Our latest recruit—another forward—sails down the opposite side of the ice. He’s older than the average rookie, but still young enough for me to feel old as shit every time I think about it too hard.

The kid has a Basset Hound’s name—Gunnar—but he can fucking play. With one eye on the shot clock, I pick my moment. At the last moment, I flick my stick and send the puck flying straight across the rink. He slaps it. The flashing buzzer sounds as the clock runs out.

Fuck yes.

I bump shoulders with the defender who’s been glaring a hole in my helmet, shooting him a shit-eating grin. “Good game, bro.”

Which is probably stupid.

Because two seconds later, we’re both on the ice, pounding each other’s faces through our gloves.

Cassian hauls me back by my jersey and shoves me into the boards. I hear Gunnar laughing while my packmate mutters, “We won, Damon. For fuck’s sake.”

I let them tow me to the edge of the ice and pull me into the tunnel, then I tug my helmet off and swipe at my split lip.

Motherfucker.

Smith will be so mad if I have a black eye and that matching service thingy calls us in. If they ever call us in. The odds Cassian spat at both of us made the whole thing sound like a pipe dream.

Although, like I said: I’m extra lucky. In fact, this whole thing is very on-brand.

If anyone is going to find their soulmate from a cup of jizz, it’s me.

At this point, I’m not sure what’s scarier—the idea of actually finding our omega, or the implosion Smith will have if he can’t check this box off. He’s obsessed with that shit.

It started when he was seventeen and their parents had their accident. He thought organizing everything into a list was the best way for him to get his shit together and take care of Cassian.

It wasn’t that simple, obviously, but he never let the damn thing go. Even when the list changed and grew, forming sub-lists and sidenotes. Didn’t matter. He just worked harder, did more.

Once he got his degree, he expanded his company. Once the company expanded, we made more money, and he had to learn about using it. Once he had our accounts secured, he started in about property. That led to our new house and two years of renovations, none of which ever got finished.

Now he wants us to have an omega? For what? So he can add ten new lists for all the shit he or she will need?

Poor bastard’s just chasing his tail if you ask me.

I mean, no one did, but still.

It’s ironic. Smith’s been beating his head against the wall, trying to get Cass on board; if he was looking for an ally, he could have just asked me.

Most of the women gathered around the locker room entrance are betas, cloaked in scent sprays meant to mimic omega perfume. My dick perks up with a lazy sort of interest, and I almost roll my eyes.

Come on, Big D. You know this isn’t what we really want.

To be fair, I don’t know what we really want. I just know that every girl bouncing their titties at me looks the same, somehow.

None of them actually do… but… they do. You know?

Jesus. I need a shower.

Gunnar is more than happy to scoop up all my chips. He flashes them a grin and offers a cowboy’s gentlemanly nod. It matches his accent. “Evenin’ ladies.”

They eat that shit up. Which is fine by me. I got my shots in, and we won, so, you know, let the new kid eat cake. Or pussy. Whatever.

“Mathers!”

That would be Coach Rolly, ready to hand me my balls for that scuffle after the final buzzer. Which is fair. My eye is swelling up already. We’ll have to get ice on it to make sure I can still play in the game we have in two days.

If I can’t score for us, I’m basically useless. To the team and my pack.

It will be fine, though.

Like I said— I’m a lucky bastard.